Symbiosis
by Mai Komagata
Summary: Seishirou age 19 - introspective and such.. yaoi


Symbiosis  
  
By Mai  
  
Blood dripped slowly down his hand. He stared at it, stared through his hand entirely; his eyes listless. Reeling from what just happened. The cold wind swept around his new trench coat -- his first black trench coat -- only a couple of minutes later did he realize he was shivering from the cool night air. The leaves fell from every tree in the park, except for the one that only shed petals, and only a few now and then at that.  
  
The feeling faded away slowly: as the cool night air around him permeated his skin, along came with it a long unyielding loneliness. Pleasure felt empty when not shared: trees are not known to feel, even this tree. At times, he felt, it was almost not worth it. However, the loneliness decreased in repetition. As if he became numb to it. As he became numb to it. He did not think he could ever become numb to the pleasure. Truly, it would be a terrible thing, only to kill to survive. If he freed himself of all feeling, even of pleasure, what would become of him then? Already he did not feel so many other things he used to experience; he lost love at fifteen.  
  
The cherry needed him to kill because it survived on the energy that warm human blood held. It would wither away with seasons if it did not feed. The intrinsic structure of what is referred magic needed this act to survive: without it, the structure would become out of balance and collapse. This magic, although initially received as a gift, interwove itself with his psyche in such a way that, if removed, would cause death, just as it would with any other great magic user at this time. This was not the only gift the tree gave its caretaker, but it was the only one it gave to assure it would never become a parasite at the eyes of the Sakurazukamori. Another gift did the tree bestow on him. The Sakura would give this to ensure that he would not kill only for its survival but would provide it with a constant supply of magic.  
  
He surmised it felt like sex.  
  
Amend that thought: it felt like masturbation. One was alone, after all; the Sakura did not feel, and the victim was simply the medium. There had been that one time a few years -- years, now was it? -- when he sought the pleasure from his own; he recalls staring dazed at his hand at the white viscous liquid, through his hand, much like he was staring at the blood only a while before. After that once, he had felt the same loneliness. He hadn't done it again: it was only days later when he killed his mother and found a greater source of pleasure. Nothing detracted from the pleasure of the kill for him besides the solitude: remorse he could not feel -- one only felt it if one destroyed something of value; he was never taught human life held any. Burning a book is unremarkable to those who are illiterate, but sacrilegious to a scholar. Tossing bread is of no consequence to those with money, but heresy to the starved man.  
  
Looking back, he supposed only the experience of killing his mother could be construed as "sex". Not that he had any basis for such a comparison. However, she felt the pleasure too that afternoon. She was willing, even tingling with the feeling of a previous kill. Receptive, and if it matters, in love. He was in love, wasn't he? He loved her, but he wasn't in love. That was not what gave the moment rapture to him. That time, he did not feel the loneliness. He kissed her. There was a promise, an omen in a way. He would be in love again, when he was killed in the same way. Seishirou did not know how he felt about that.  
  
It was one or two years back when he met that little Sumeragi boy here. He had not seen him since then. What had he felt then? Why had he given up a chance to feel pleasure from such a beautiful and innocent little boy? One that held so much vitality and magic, qualities that made the experience all the more pleasurable? Would the wait enhance the feeling? He though of him every night, the sweet scent of a craving. Maybe if he held value, if he felt any human emotion towards the boy, it would be better than the kill. Why would he want to find out if anything could feel better than killing? It is not as if he could just stop this nightly ritual. It had once felt better though, he reminded himself: when he had killed him mother. He promised not to kill the boy if he felt something though. What had his mother felt, when she died? Setsuka told him it was a beautiful thing, to die in the hands of a beloved. He did indeed love beautiful things, the boy held beauty. Did he want to love something so much that he wanted to die; would the feeling eclipse the idea that his life would end? Would the feeling be so beautiful that he would not need to feel anything else ever again? He could not imagine giving his vitality to anything. Well, he had made a bet after all.  
  
The other day, he had taken his college entrance exams. The results had been published the previous afternoon. Seishirou was accepted to the veterinary school of one of Japan's finest educational institutions. Surely, some student in Tokyo cried tonight for being denied acceptance. This made him smile. Maybe he should find one of those students and murder her tomorrow night. People would think of it as suicide maybe. He had nobody to share his efforts with: it is not like he had friends, nor was he that insane to talk to a tree. Perversely, the thought of bragging to his dying prey made him snicker. However, he knew that was empty: he had nobody who cared today, and nobody would care tomorrow. He did not even care. Veterinary was only an inconspicuous way of dealing with sakanagi.  
  
Nevertheless, a terrible sense of bloodlust had built in him as soon as he saw the results. It had made him high to know that he had the highest score on one of the most difficult universities in Japan. Outwardly, he appeared serene and unfazed. His hands itched to be covered in blood. In a way, he was angry that nobody cared. The kill would make him forget.  
  
The beauty of his victim does not make it any more pleasurable, but he had always loved beautiful things. Just like wine does make you forget any faster in a crystal chalice than straight from the bottle, but it is prettier. Artistic, maybe even more civilized. It further distracts the senses from the true base purpose.  
  
He put his arms around the beautiful youth and drew him to stroll around Ueno Park. Leisurely walking, never rushing, slowly building the lust for it. He knew it came from the tree, the soft caresses that inflames his skin, the sense of want. Little kisses, now and then, a few sweet, later, more insistent and lustful. The boy must not have been much younger than him. He wrapped his arms around Seishirou's neck, drew him for a longer kiss, a short nip at his earlobe, a soft urging whisper to go elsewhere. The park might look deserted at his late hour of the night, but once the subway stops running, there is no place to rest at night.  
  
However, the park was not deserted. They were already underneath the illusion at the foot of the Sakura tree. And the Sakura would make a nice resting place for this boy for all eternity, he thought. Softly he urged them both down to lie at the roots of the age-old tree. A kiss at the jaw, a string of then running down his smooth fragile neck, drew short gasps from the boy. His breath deepened. Seishirou brought his hands up to the other's shirt to slowly undo the buttons, not bothering to remove neither of their trench coats. One hand caressed the left nipple though the thin white shirt, their hips rubbed enticingly. The boy moaned louder.  
  
The youth's shirt undone, Seishirou moved his hand under, rubbing the left breast in slowly diminishing circles. He ran his left hand through the boy's longish back hair, dark and silky. He bent down to kiss the neck once more, smiling at the flickering eyelids as they closed shut. He whispered, open your eyes beautiful. Now.  
  
Magic extended from his longs fingers like tendrils, drawing his hand into the boy's chest. A shrill scream, louder. The ribs cracked without a sound; this time, it is Seishirou who attempted not to close his eyes, his breath sped up. The boy moaned in the most exquisite pain as the Sakurazukamori closed his hand around his heart, rubbed his hips faster, insistently. The heart slowed its beating, his hand squeezed the remaining blood gently.  
  
The screams died down.  
  
He moaned softly as the body beneath died.  
  
The boy's eyes closed, and so did his.  
  
One last shuddering breath he exhaled as he drew his hand out, spreading the blood on the rough tree trunk in front of him as if to extend the pleasure.  
  
The tree swiftly drew the body in. Kneeling before the tree, he looked at the blood still in his hand, dripping slowly, his eyes still hazy from pleasure. 


End file.
